Page 72 of Revenge of the Blood Pack

"Am I?" I ask. Nothing about me is okay.

Max reaches over and pats my thigh, and even that minimal touch does things to me, quiets the fight in me. I feel my wolf padding around within, settling like a dog against the arm of a couch. An undeniable connection binds us together now. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but I'm too tired to parse the emotions.

Unable to help myself, I glance in the rearview mirror and see that both Orson and Braxton have their gazes locked onto Max’s hand on my thigh. I feel my nipples harden, and draw in a shaky breath. I don’t know why the fuck my wolf likes her men to be possessive, but it’s clear that I like it too.

On some wolf-level, I want nothing more than to slide my hand up Max’s thigh, unzip his pants, take him out, and stroke his big cock. On that same level, I want to wrap my lips aroundhim and suck him off while the men in the backseat are left hard and wanting.

I take a shaky breath, internally telling my wolf to calm down. She might want to follow her instincts and desires only, but I have other things on my mind. Not to mention the fact that I doubt Max wouldletme suck him off, if only because he wouldn’t want Orson seeing me like that.

Damn it.His possessiveness is far too sexy.

Braxton’s gaze meets mine in the rearview mirror, and his mouth curls into a sexy smile. I hate that I suspect he knows my mind is in the gutter, and that his mind is right there with me. My only savior is that Max has no idea what his touch has done to me.

“This lead is a big one,” Max says, drawing my gaze back to him. “A better lead than any we’ve chased down so far.”

Hope blossoms inside of me.Was one of my pack members spotted?

Then, a chill rolls through me as past images flash through my mind of death. Of Clinton and those bastards who killed him. "Do we have to worry about–?"

"No one's going to hurt them," he reassures me, his voice barely above a whisper.

I get the sense he doesn't want Orson to know more than we have to tell him, but he doesn't need to say more. Those psycho Enforcers won't hurt anyone before we reach my pack member, and we have a lead. It's like a giant weight falls off my shoulders.

“Alright, Max,” I say, my voice fading. I want to lay my hand over his in my lap, hold it as I fall asleep, but I’m wary of what Orson will think too.

After a few seconds, Max removes his hand and I distract myself from the empty feeling in my chest with the passing scenery. Out there, somewhere, my brother Simon regenerates, the malignant sludge returning to strength. That unsettlingthought spurs a question. “Any word at all about the Blood Pack member who escaped yesterday? He can't have just… disappeared.”

I spy the muscle in his jaw wriggling beneath his cheek. “We’ll find him,” he says, confident. Though I suspect his confidence belies a secret doubt in me, one he refuses to acknowledge, one that’s metastasized to our mission. To me.Please don’t hate me, Max. “Did you recognize him?”

Fear pricks my heart and quickens it.Is he fishing?Scrutinizing his expression offers no clues. He’s wearing a stony-faced look befitting a poker champion. “No,” I reply, hoping to mask the truth as well as he hides everything. “He was encased in that awful gooey shit. I couldn’t get a good look at him.”

There’s a long pause while I wait for his response and it dangles me over a boiling cauldron. “Hm,” is all he says, a brief noise of consideration. I wait for more, but nothing else comes. I guess I should be grateful there aren’t any follow-up questions.

“So,” says Orson, “I imagine our work will necessitate a lot of hours like this, on the road, the four of us sharing a single car. Lots of time we might forge bonds.”

His words are so unexpected, I almost laugh.What?I turn back and spot Braxton glaring.

“Wouldn’t count on it,” Braxton rebuffs.

“Initial rejection often melts in the face of social isolation,” Orson counters, “in my experience. I don’t suppose we’ll have much outside contact, leaving only our foursome to satisfy those needs.”

“There’ll be no foursome to satisfy your needs,” says Braxton, his voicedrippingwith venom.

Orson chuckles good-naturedly. “I suppose I asked for that. Braxton, I didn't even get your favorite color. Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?”

“Because I don’t want to,” Braxton answers curtly. He slumps against his door and presses his forehead up against the glass in an attempt to get as far away from our gregarious new addition as possible.

Despite his gruff rejection, Braxton fails to dissuade Orson, who continues making efforts to befriend him. I snicker in the front seat while listening to Orson’s many failed attempts, not quite as sleepy now with something so amusing happening under my nose.

Why are you being such a dick, Braxton?I think fleetingly it might have something to do with me, the testosterone-mandated urge to snub other men in close proximity to your woman.Does Braxton think of me as his woman?Or at least half his, given our peculiar arrangement.

Property of the Blackwells. I think flippantly of getting a tattoo to that effect, like a brand.If men had their way. Our threesome still plays on a loop in the back of my thoughts. I can’t believe we did that. Yet, at the same time, I have to admit I crave more. I don’t know whether it will change things between us.

I don't know what to hope for either.

The drone of the rolling tires, and Orson’s voice, begins to lull me into sleep. I fight against it, but the magic I used against my brother, then again to save Max from the oily spear, followed by the all-night hunt for Simon, drained me of my last reserves. There’s no winning against my eyelids as they finally clamp shut, closing out the world.

In the darkness, my mind tumbles through surreal dreams. Simon appears. I think to call out to him, but my voice can’t reach across a wide ravine separating us. I glance down into the deep scar it carves into the earth, streaming through the gully like an oily black snake running a river of pitch.

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